


Not The Same World (Where the Gods Are Concerned)

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Norse Religion & Lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-19
Updated: 2007-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:36:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1641827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a very cold night, and Loki had a story to tell, but for what price?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not The Same World (Where the Gods Are Concerned)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for xenacryst

 

 

I.

He was a very old man, and it was a very cold night, but the fire was warm, and the mead was over-flowing, and he didn't mind so much the cold as he did the snow. Snow got into your clothes, and blew on eyelashes, and hair, underneath hats. Snow melted. Snow got into his bones, where the cold just blew around him. That was a secret, of course, about the cold, if anyone asked, he felt it the same as anyone else.

He sat by the fire, in a wooden chair, hands wrapped around an old pewter mug. If he stared hard, and long, there were faces in those flames, shapes of old, and details long past. If he listened, he heard tongues no longer spoken in the cracking of the smoke, and the shifting of the logs.

He shook himself, sipped his mead, it was all balderdash. The old gods no longer existed. That world was done, this was the new world, and he sipped at his mead again, whatever this new world was.

He remembered the old worlds, the worlds no one else did. Worlds where the trickster god seduced the gentle giants; worlds where a snowstorm like this blanketed the forests north, and mead just like this always filled a mug.

He smiled into the flames, one old man to an old flame, it was appropriate.

II.

It was on an evening much like this one that he had even first heard of the gods. He had been a tavern much like this one, when a man had offered to buy him a drink. The other man had seemed well enough, no tricks up his sleeves or in his pockets, but still he shook his head.

"My wife expects me home," had been his answer.

"No foolery, old man," the other man had laughed, "you wife died two years ago. Just one, it'll make you young again."

"Nothing will make me young again," he answered, not without some regret, "but I'll have your drink, just one."

There had been something strange about that other man, something wild in his eyes, and something off in the way he moved. Graceful, yes, all too more, but stumbled. He had grinned widely, and led the old man to a table. "I," he had whispered, "just stole Thor's hammer."

III.

He told his tale, exactly as it is written here:

Thor was not the brightest, but he was strong, and he was courageous, and he was as ruthless as most the gods, and with him he kept a hammer, which in his hand, protected the lands from those who would harm it, giants mostly.

There were those who said this hammer was his other-half, served where a lover would, but those who whispered not. No matter, for yesterday's morning, when Thor reached for his hammer, it wasn't there. He screamed, of course, threw his tantrum, demanded if anyone had seen his hammer, and when he asked me, of course I said no.

But that's not the end, oh no, not so nearly as the end. Because see, I've hidden it, Thor's hammer. And when Thor came to me, I pretended I did not know where it was, and it was then I came up with such as my idea. We'd go to see Freya, I suggested, and we'd borrow her cloak, and in the disguise of birds, we'd go to look for it. She gave us her cloak, of course, because you see, old man, Thor's hammer protects us all, and Freya knew the dire danger we were all in if Thor's hammer was not found, so her cloak she did indeed give us.

But now there were some minor details I didn't account for. Because you see when I flew to the Giant's lands to tell them of this deed, their King admitted it was he who had stolen it. I admit this had me by surprise, but when you are the Trickster himself, you can never stay surprised for long. I asked him what he wanted. Freya, he said, as his bride, and I promised him he would have it.

I returned to our land, and to Freya I returned her cloak, Thor asked me if I had his hammer. I had, I told him, but if we wanted to have it returned, Freya would have to marry the Giant's King. She screamed, of course, and cried, and refused, but this too I planned. He'll marry Thor, I said, and the plan was better now that I spoke it, He'll marry Thor dressed in Freya's jewels, and Freya's clothes, and Freya's veil, and he'll never know the difference.

There was a glint in the other man's eyes, and something terrible in his smile. The old man shuddered slightly, but still he had to ask: "Did he? Did you?"

"Oh, I did, well enough," the other man smiled, and his smile was like blood spilling on the pavement, and such as knives slitting throats. "I had Thor in Freya's clothes, and Freya's jewels, and Freya's veil, but you see, old man, I have Thor's Hammer."

The old man's eyes grew wide, and his mouth wider. He finished his drink in one long swallow. "How?"

But the other man only grinned more. "A trickster never gives away all his secrets, and a teller of tales never reveals all his secrets." He slapped the old man on the shoulder. "How about it? I'll buy you another drink, this one will make you young."

IV.

There were no worlds like that, not anymore, he knew, worlds where the Thunder God's hammer was stolen, and the Trickster bought an old man drinks.

Worlds where the Trickster told him more stories, and bought him more drinks, but still he smiled that same cold, ruthless smile, and when he finally left with the morning's dawn, he leaned close, and asked, "A trade for my generosity, what is your name?"

And he had looked up, and smiled. "Have none, it's forgotten, lost."

The other man's smile turned predatory. "You lie."

"No," he had sworn, "I don't."

And the other man had thrown his head back and laughed, touched his hand to the old man's forehead. "Very well, old man. I'll come to you when you remember."

V.

There were no men like that, and no worlds. But this was a very cold night, and he was a very old man. It was cold outside, he knew, but inside here he was warm, and the mead over-flowed, and the logs moved in ancient tongues. It snowed outside, and snow got in everywhere, and made him cold where even the cold did not.

But he liked it here, and here the flames returned his smiles, and the voices were kind.

He was a very old man, and this was a very cold night, it had been a cold night the other man had visited him, and with him, took his name, even as he had not given it truly.

 

 

 


End file.
